I nod for what must be the hundredth time. “Um, okay. So, point me toward the meat-free items here, Maddie, because it all looks the same to me.”
She laughs as though I’ve just said something childish. “I think you’re safe with these two plates.”
“You think, or you know? Because my bowels are on the line here.” I feel like I have to cut to the chase to get my point across.
She wrinkles her nose. “Kate, that is disgusting.”
“Sorry. I’m just telling it like it is. This body knows, and it’s a fairly swift rejection once it hits the point of no return.”
Her nose is still wrinkled. “Just eat off these two plates and you’ll be fine.”
I’m about thirty percent confident in her advice and unfortunately everything on the table smells fishy because there are shitloads of it in front of me. I decide to trust her. I take a bite and it tastes funny, but I can’t tell what might be rice and what might be fish. Either way, I have to fight my gag reflex with each bite. I eat three pieces, alternately downing water between each bite.
Maddie polishes off both martinis and an impressive amount of food and then denies a take-out box when it’s offered for the rest of the food still sitting on the table. I’m not kidding, if this stuff didn’t taste like ass I would’ve been able to eat off what she threw out for a couple of days.
When the check comes she reaches for her purse and delicately hits her forehead. She’s got a flair for the dramatic. “Oh my gosh, I must have forgotten my wallet at the apartment.” She turns fawning eyes up at me, and it becomes obvious that we will not be splitting this bill. “No problem, I’ll get it,” I say. I mean, I am her guest. It’s the least I can do for her letting me crash at her place for a few days.
She pushes the receipt across the table and I almost piss myself, because the bill is $173.00! I only have fifty bucks in my wallet, so I put it on my only credit card. The one I reserve only for emergencies, which means I try never to use it. It feels a little bit like I’m turning over my first born as I relinquish my card to the waiter. I’m pretty thrifty with my money, not because I’m some sort of miser, but because I have bills to pay every month. And I’m responsible about it. I always allocate a little bit of money to have fun with or to help someone out, but I just blew that whole wad in one dinner. It’s okay, I tell myself, and by the time the waiter returns I’m resigned to the fact that this was a learning experience and something I’ll probably laugh about later.
Maddie excuses herself to the restroom while I’m signing the credit card receipt. By the time she returns my lower belly starts gurgling. It’s a low, foreboding rumble, speaking to a time in the near future in which it will make me pay for whatever it was I just fed it.
We race back to the apartment and I make it to the bathroom with about half a second to spare before I shit my pants. The culmination of my sushi experience is angry and explosive.
After I’ve been thoroughly chastised by my colon, I decide to just chill in my bedroom and read for a while. Around 9:30pm I start looking at the clock every five minutes. At 10:00pm I’m pacing the floor. And by 10:30pm I’ve nearly worn a path through the carpet and my hand’s sweaty from the death grip I’ve got on my cell phone. I’ve been staring at it for a good fifteen minutes now. It’s still early in California. I tell myself that he’s probably at the beach. But what if he’s home and just avoiding me because last night’s conversation was so uncomfortable? Aw shit, just call him and get this over with or it will eat you up. I scroll through the contacts on my phone and tap his name. His face appears on the screen with his long, million shades of blond, sun-bleached hair hanging over one eye. He’s laughing, but the one eye that’s visible looks like it’s twinkling right at me. I look at this photo every time I dial his number for a few seconds before I put the phone to my ear, because it’s like he’s greeting me in his goofy way before I even hear him answer. I smile, which relaxes me. The phone rings four times and I’m waiting for the voicemail greeting after the fifth ring. But then he answers.
He’s panting like he’s out of breath. “Gus’s fire department, you light em', we fight em'.”
“Hey, where is the fire, dude?”
He takes a few deep breaths. “Sorry, I was just loading up my board and I could hear the phone ringing but the damn door of my truck was locked and—”
“I thought the locks were broken.”
“They were. Now they aren’t I guess. I don’t know what the f**k’s going on. The electrical system is jacked.”
“Maybe you should get a new truck?” I offer, but only because I know it will spur a debate.
“Why would I want to do that?” He’s mock-offended. We do this at least once a week.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe because your truck is from 1989. Or because it has over 300,000 miles on it. Or because something’s always broken.” I’d be devastated if he got rid of it. I love his truck, mostly because it’s a piece of shit. But he’s so protective of it that it’s fun to tease him.
“Dude, it’s just getting broken in. It’s got character.” His defense is spectacular.
I laugh. “I know. I love your truck and all its broken character.” Then I drop the act. “How were the waves today?”
“Sucked. It was crowded as all hell and I think every tourist and his brother picked tonight to rent a board and try to conquer the waves. It was full-blown chaos. Why do people think because they watch a surfing movie once or twice they’re somehow qualified to rent a board and try to f**king kill us out there? I mean, bull riding looked fun as hell when I saw a guy do it at the rodeo when I was six, but I wouldn’t jump on one myself. There’s etiquette, you know? There are rules.”